family
Peach Daisies
He used to give me peach daisies. I told him I hated flowers, but he'd pick one for me every Monday on our walk home from school, stow it in my palm and run ahead before I could give it back. It would end up on the ground, the petals smashed by bike tracks and roller blades of the next-door neighbors. When we stood on the porch of our brick farmhouse, he’d look at my empty hand in disappointment.
By Sam Eliza Green5 years ago in Fiction
My Marigolds
When I was six, everything was full of color. The sky was always blue, the grass was never brown. But even when everything was bright, I knew the marigolds on our lawn was the brightest. Our marigolds shone brighter than anything in our little Mexican neighborhood, even the brilliant, scorching sun .
By And I am Nightmare5 years ago in Fiction
Marigolds and Clover
By a cruel twist of fate, the sun was shining and the birds were singing the day we laid Clover to rest. For the world, her death will have gone unheralded. No obituary would appear in the paper. Nobody would tweet how sorry they were to see her go or provide accolades of her accomplishments. No bard would sing of her feats, no epic saga of her adventures would be filmed, no Wikipedia article would be written about her life, and no queen would posthumously bestow upon her a ladyhood - if that’s the correct term. She was just gone, her life an insignificant blip on a radar, a true nobody in the history of the world.
By Phoebe Wilby5 years ago in Fiction
